[For a long beat he stares at him. Doesn't blink. Doesn't say anything. Keeps his eyes locked, until he reaches over, grabs a handful of those cookies, and just smashes them into Hythlodaeus' mouth.]

Aye—that you should cease your own.

[He still feels...a lot of things, but he knows when it's pointless to pursue anything. Once Hythlodaeus has eased into his more jovial and joking ways, it's better to wait for the right time to delve into anything severe. That aside, he'd like a break from the torment of his own emotions that twist around in his chest like an unrelenting tempest.]

And there is no grace about you, nor is there any indignation. You are ever Hythlodaeus, and naught else befits describing you. What I prefer has hardly, if ever, been your true concern. Do not pretend that it is now.